


shattered, silent, seen

by yakyuu_yarou



Series: rite of reprisal [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (Bertie; Grizzop; Sasha), Canon-Typical Violence, Hallucinations, Illusions, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mindfuck, Minor Character Death, Murder, Revenge, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27575737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakyuu_yarou/pseuds/yakyuu_yarou
Summary: Wilde's technically-not-revenge on the cultists, from his own perspective.This is a companion piece toDesperate Dreaming Death, my first RQG fic from back in February. It can probably be read as a standalone.Written for Wilde Week 2020, Day 1.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Series: rite of reprisal [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011966
Comments: 20
Kudos: 27
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	shattered, silent, seen

**Author's Note:**

> It's Wilde Week time, and I figured — what better way to kick it off than with a callback to the first RQG fic I ever wrote?
> 
> Prompt for today:  
> Day 1 - “Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much." 
> 
> Forgiveness | **Revenge** | Apathy

Zolf is a distant glimmer at the edge of Oscar’s awareness. It is a fierce, steady thing, burning bright but never at a danger of burning _out_ , and it is a comfort — not that Oscar would ever admit as much out loud. He does not need to, for one, and knows it.

And it would be too great a risk to give words to this thing. Too dangerous, of course, to openly profess any sort of attachment (even if there is only one person he’d be open _with_ ).

But Zolf is _there_ , has agreed to bear witness to this act of — of closure, because revenge is not something they can afford. He is a constant in the maelstrom that Oscar has conjured and continues to feed, and Oscar takes another step towards one of the cultists, the heavy cuffs dangling from a hook on his belt. He smiles down at them (the first of the final three, all others have already been turned into lifeless ragdolls caught in his chaos), and he lets go of the melody he’s been crafting until now, one full of dark promise and threat finally unveiled.

Oscar takes a breath.

He sings of a stage, of an audience panicked and fleeing and frozen and fading fast. He sings of a man in shining armour who is not and never was a knight choking on his own greed and hatred and fear. He sings of the way there is no air in Bertie’s lungs, of the way he gasps desperately for breaths that refuse to come while other people once again do all the work, except this time — this time Bertie’s only reward is a slow, airless death.

The cultist before him grasps at their throat, mouth open wide in a grimace of desperate terror, and Oscar sings the next stretch of melody around a cold, unamused smile as their face turns blue and their eyes bulge and they—

_fall._

Again, Oscar takes a breath.

He sings of the Grizzop he saw in his dreams whenever he chanced taking off the cuffs for a single night. He sings of him bloody and broken and full of grim joy, standing as tall as a goblin can while he is impaled on the weapons of people who are infinitely smaller than him in every way that could ever count.

The cloaked figure before him spits blood, sourceless and real and their own, as one by one five invisible imaginary spearpoints pierce their worthless chest. They take two more wet, ragged breaths, and then they—

tip over, lifeless and insignificant.

Again — one last time in this timeless eternity of pain and suffering and unreality —, Oscar takes a _breath._

He sings of a long life, one full of laughter and the sweet sort of pain that comes with missing something that one knows one can never, ever get back. He imagines Sasha’s smile as he sings, small and secret and never quite certain whether or not it is _allowed_ , but sharpened with age.

He sings of the inescapable, sunken-stone knowledge that the life she was leading, the future she thought she might have, will never again be her reality. He sings of the way her face fades as the years go by, not for _her_ but for all those who knew her, all those who wanted to see her grow and never, ever will.

The last remaining cultist is staring up at him as note for note, bar for bar of this song that has never existed before and will never exist again, little pieces of what made them who they are fade away. This verse (is that what it is? Or is it a song of its own?) is longer than the others, and progress is slower, but eventually, there is simply _nothing_ left behind their eyes. They remain motionless for a beat, another, and then—

the lifeless husk crumples.

The song abruptly ends, and silence falls over the corpses.

Oscar turns to Zolf.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shattered, Silent, Seen [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27579407) by [KD reads (KDHeart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDHeart/pseuds/KD%20reads)




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